


keep on falling

by Hinterlands



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, First Time, cass is pretty stoked about that, josie has nipple piercings, this has more feelings than i anticipated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8054845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/pseuds/Hinterlands
Summary: ("We do not have to, my love," Josephine tells her, almost off the edge of hearing; Cassandra swallows, and swallows hard, and her voice does not waver when she speaks next. "I want to.")





	keep on falling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agenthill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/gifts).



The kiss itself was not insistent; Josephine is, to a fault, a relentlessly considerate lover, and the press of her lips (wonderfully, unbelievably soft) is--inviting, always, lips parted just slightly, soft, breathy exhalations sweeping over Cassandra's own lips, eager for the press of tongue--but never demanding, never testing the boundaries of Cassandra's fleeting, finicky bouts of comfort with such intimacy, her fingers hooked over the sure ridges of the Seeker's shoulders, the warmth of her palms evident, obvious, even through Cassandra's cotton shirt.

More often than not, Cassandra will rise to her, her own mouth moving slowly, tongue (and sometimes, a brief suggestion of teeth, if Cassandra is feeling especially bold) grazing Josephine's lower lip, eliciting a slow shudder that wracks her from toes to crown; there is a tenderness in this that Josephine has thought, in prior months, that she would seldom see, breaking the surface of Cassandra's usual severity, and they will sit, often, mouths moving languidly, Josephine perched in the divot of the Seeker's lap, pausing only to take in the occasional breath, a blotchy flush creeping along the pillar of Cassandra's throat (and rising to the surface of her skin wherever Josephine's lips touch, when she elects to allow them to wander, warmth breath skirting the line of her jaw, the V of her collarbone), one of Josephine's palms cupping the Seeker's cheek, thumb tracing the pitted, prominent line of her scar, slowly, ceaselessly.

But should hands stray further, become errant--to the hem of the Seeker's shirt, down the gentle incline of Josephine's back--Cassandra will, more often than not, break the kiss--indeed, strive to break all contact, flushed and breathless, her shoulders hunched, her back rigid.

(Something in her voice like shame, some rawness gathering at the back of her throat as she says _I_ , and pauses to inhale, says, _not_ _tonight_ , and leans away, almost imperceptibly. And Josephine, always, elects not to pursue her, not to strain the bounds of this strange, new, tumultuous thing, but lets her hands linger upon the Seeker's humped shoulders until the tension begins to drain from her, bit by bit by bit.

Josephine does not expect boldness, not now, and the instinctive, immediate hurt settling heavy in the pit of her stomach, hard and cold and smooth as stone, she wills to dissipate.)

 _Tonight_ , however, Cassandra is--if not _bold_ , then unusually _responsive_ , tipping her head back slightly as Josephine's mouth migrates to the pulse-point of her throat, stringing a trail of kisses downwards, to the sliver of collarbone visible above the neckline of her shirt; another kiss, here, open-mouthed, teeth grazing, and the sensation wins a sound from the Seeker, tiny and raspy, and Josephine's eyes trend upwards, to fix on Cassandra's. She is surprised (albeit pleasantly so) to find that Cassandra's gaze is growing clouded, her eyes lidded heavily, and her fingers tighten, almost imperceptibly, in the fabric of Josephine's nightgown as she allows her teeth to scrape again, slowly, to drag, and Cassandra shifts her hips, slowly and deliberately, and rocks up against her.

 _Beat_ , and breath, and Josephine is straightening to meet Cassandra' eyes, heedless of the warmth suffusing her own face, lips parted, just slightly. "Are you--?"

" _Yes_ ," Cassandra breathes, though her neck and face have darkened considerably, and there is some lingering trepidation in her gaze; Josephine leans forward, almost dizzy with the _heat_ of it, pressing one kiss to Cassandra's parted lips, another, hands smoothing down the Seeker's sides to catch the hem of her shirt, feeling the tension there rise and ebb.

("We do not have to, my love," Josephine tells her, almost off the edge of hearing; Cassandra swallows, and swallows hard, and her voice does not waver when she speaks next. "I _want_ to.")

Josephine leans back, feels her fingertips meet the solid wall of the Seeker's abdomen as she slides her hands just beneath the hem of Cassandra's shirt, and is delighted (secretly, silently, aside from the renewed heat rising to the surface of her skin) to feel the rigid muscle there twitch in response. Cassandra gives vent to a startled, rather husky chuckle, as if divining her thoughts, and raises her arms to assist Josephine in divesting her of her shirt, albeit with a hint of reticence. Josephine touches her shoulder, gingerly, and says again, more insistently; "We can stop whenever you wish.”

Hard exhalation, Cassandra's gaze unwavering; there is a certain vulnerability in it that snatches the breath from Josephine's lungs in turn, but her voice is steady and sincere as she replies; "I do not wish to stop."

The breastband next, then, and Josephine's hands waver, there, as if asking permission, and Cassandra swallows again, her face afire, and nods, and Josephine reaches to cup her breasts, weighing them in either hand, finds them a perfect handful, pale brown nipples already stiffening against her palms. She circles them with the pads of her thumbs, slowly, thoughtfully, and smiles a slow, private smile for Cassandra’s sudden intake of breath. Abruptly, she releases her hold, leans back slightly, and smiles again for Cassandra’s sudden, bewildered, _flustered_ frown, wider, this time; “I suppose,” she says, her eyes lidding, “That it is only fair that we’re in the same state of undress, hm?”

A moment passes before her meaning seems to sink in past the haze surrounding Cassandra's mind, and Josephine has to clamp her teeth on a startled laugh as the Seeker's eyes widen, just slightly, her shoulders stiffening. "Ah," she says, tongue thick in her mouth, and then; "Yes. I...suppose that is true."

(The awkwardness, the woodenness, is endearing, in its way, but Josephine is careful not to comment on it; Cassandra's pride, while not _fragile_ , retains a certain brittleness in issues of intimacy, of passion--the torrid romance novels, devoured in secret, are a testament to this--instead, she merely smiles, and begins the laborious process of hauling her nightgown off, with Cassandra's gentle, steady hands to assist her. The thing is sinfully soft, and layered copiously as some defense against the chill, and in the fall of fabric the shape of her body is largely obscured; Cassandra's breath hitches, softly, softly, as it at last comes off, and the pervasive cold of the bedroom is nothing beside the wash of warmth that breaks over her.)

Cassandra's eyes are reverent, and, because Josephine knows that Cassandra will never seek to venture where she has not been invited, in words as well as deed, she leans forward, touches her lips to Cassandra's throat, feels her pulse stutter, and murmurs, softly, breathily; _touch me, love._

Cassandra does; her hands are warm, and hard with callus, and impossibly gentle as they trace the length of Josephine's back, her shoulders, mapping the faded constellation of freckles that resides there as they meander downwards, curve over the padded jut of her hips. Her breathing is rapid, and soft, and Josephine smiles against the line of her throat, moves against her with an aching gentleness. Her own hands are stationary; Cassandra's touches are still light, still exploratory, and it would not do to overstep her bounds.

(Cassandra is not a virgin--this is a fact, solid and unchangeable, but she has not been with women, is not practiced in the affairs of passion with women, and that has reduced her, once more, to little better than a fumbling youth, in her own mind. She knows that this is obvious, and despises herself for it, somewhere down deep.)

Eventually, though, Josephine leans back, away, and shifts down from Cassandra's lap; the Seeker follows her--still pliable, uncertain enough to be led--and leans down as Josephine lays back, applying only a fraction of her weight, and Josephine tips her head back, smooths her hands over Cassandra's shoulders, eyes full and overflowing with trust. Cassandra leans in obligingly, touches her lips to the soft V of flesh just beneath Josephine's chin, and, slowly, deliberately, begins to trail her mouth downward, past her collarbone, peppering pliant brown skin with open-mouthed kisses, the occasional sting of teeth that elicits the softest of shivers. As she reaches Josephine's chest, she hesitates, mouth drawn into a thin line, and Josephine murmurs something soft and lilting that she does not comprehend, but takes as encouragement. Another kiss pressed to her sternum, and as she turns her attention to Josephine's breasts proper, there is a glint of something metallic in the candlelight, and she pauses, brow furrowing.

"Cassandra?" Josephine's voice is warm with concern. "Is something the matter?"

"What are these?" Cassandra leans down, slightly, and blinks, slow and owlish, as the glint resolves into a thin metal bar, threaded through one of Josephine's stiff, brown nipples, the ends rounded, barely half the length of her little finger; a swift glance to her left affirms that it has a twin, and Josephine's answering laugh is melodic, if a touch breathy. "Oh, those. I had honestly forgotten they were there."

Cassandra presses her thighs together, almost imperceptibly. "When...?"

"Some years ago, now." There is a smile in Josephine's voice, warm with the memory. "I would not say that they were the height of fashion, but, more....intimate piercings were in style in Val Royeaux at the time, and a small group of my peers had decided to indulge in the trend. I confess, there may have been a great quantity of wine involved in my decision to accompany them." Josephine nestles her head back into the pillow, eyelids flickering. "But I would not say I regret the experience, though the sensation was...interesting."

"Interesting," Cassandra repeats, and she dips her head down, just slightly, enough that her breath sweeps over Josephine's skin. "Do they hurt?"

"No, not at present. There was some pain, initially, but now I am inclined to forget that they’re there at all—unless I happen to be wearing something…especially form-fitting.” A breathy chuckle, on the cusp of embarrassment; absurdly, it leaches some of the tension from the Seeker herself, and she—cautiously, gingerly—lowers her head to take Josephine’s nipple into her mouth, feel the edge of the chill metal slide against the flat of her tongue. She feels Josephine jolt, giving vent to a breathy, surprised _oh!_ , and she closes her eyes, swirls her tongue around the hard bud of it, and as Josephine’s knee rises to nudge her thighs apart she does not resist, opening to her willingly. That her trousers are still rucked up over her hips is an obstacle to be overcome when she has a moment to regain her senses, her _breath_.

Slick metal contrasting with warm, pebbled skin, and with every flick of the tongue her hips rock down, grinding, heat rising to the surface of her skin along the column of her spine, her face afire. Maker, but she's wet, certainly beginning to soak through the leather of her trousers (today, of course, as ever, she has foregone undergarments, and she cannot decide, hazy as she is, if this is to her advantage at present), and Josephine is arched and panting softly with only a few repetitions of Cassandra's previous tonguework, whimpering each time the piercing is jostled, and as Cassandra reaches to pluck at Josephine's opposite nipple--sorely neglected, surely-- with gentle fingers, gaining confidence, she can feel Josephine's errant hand sliding down between the press of their bodies, her thighs parting slightly, one finger dipping into the wetness gathered there, and the moan she breathes in that moment shakes Cassandra to the core.

For a precious few heartbeats, the world narrows down to this--Cassandra, shifting her warm, wet mouth to lavish Josephine's opposite nipple with the same attention, the slick slide of the piercing against her tongue, the bump of it against her teeth as she brings them down--carefully, and gingerly, experimental--to tweak Josephine's nipple. The moan that wins her is comforting and encouraging in equal measures, though her stilted, clumsy grinding against the solidity of Josephine's knee has, by necessity, been halted, and her own hand makes a poor substitute, pressure always just off the cusp of enough.

Second finger slid in, to the second knuckle, thumb darting in quick, jerky motions over the peak of her clit--direct stimulation too much, always, a burst of pain rather than pleasure--and Cassandra finds herself being moved, in small, sure jerks, by the stuttery, enthusiastic motions of Josephine's hips; one hand is laid over Josephine's mouth, trapping moans between her lips and palm, eyes closed, head tipped to one side, and the moment that she seizes, the sinews in the elegant line of her throat taut and exposed, her limbs quaking subtly, Cassandra collapses back slightly, lips parted, pupils blown.

(It's a long few heartbeats before Josephine seems to regain her senses, sliding her slicked fingers free, and at that moment Cassandra leans forward to seize her wrist, one hand already rucking her trousers down over the swell of her hips. There is a new tension in her, body, strained, damp with sweat. _Please_ , she says, her voice almost tremulous, and this time she falls back onto her elbows as Josephine, gradually, shifts upwards, towards her. _Please_.)

Josephine's hands are gentle, but sure, and she takes her time in mapping out the hard lines of Cassandra's body beneath them, the curve of muscles and pitted trenches of scars, despite the Seeker's frustrated quaking, her breaths coming in harsh, hot pants, and she inhales sharply as Josephine's hands finally, finally come to rest against her thighs, parting them, one finger pressing up, in; consciousness narrows down to the steady movement of Josephine's hand as she slides in a second finger, curves them, just so. Cassandra clutches at the sheets with one hand as Josephine leans in to kiss her with a desperate ardor, swallow the small, breathy noises the Seeker stutters out, open-mouthed, messy, and Cassandra gives vent to a high, keening sound as her thighs clamp around Josephine's hand, holding her there even through the aftershocks, while Josephine strokes her, murmuring praise-- _my darling, my love, so beautiful, oh, Cassandra_ \--and the Seeker gradually sags back into the sheets, Josephine settling atop her, between her still-splayed thighs, and resting her chin between Cassandra's breasts.

Once Cassandra has tamed her pulse, struggled to return herself to some kind of fragile equilibrium, she glances down to see Josephine, peaceful, smiling contentedly, her voice soft as she asks; "Was that good?"

"Yes," Cassandra murmurs, hoarsely, and truthfully, and she accepts the kiss that Josephine leans forward to bestow passively, the slightest of smiles stealing over her face. "I...are you...satisfied?"

"Mm," Josephine replies; there is a glint of mischief in her eyes, now, her smile still present, small and tempered. "I suppose, though...I don't believe I had nearly enough of an opportunity to appreciate you properly."

Cassandra's cheeks flush, and Josephine's smile only widens; Cassandra leans forward, with only the faintest hint of hesitation, and speaks softly, slowly, against Josephine's lips: "I suppose that there will be time for that later," she says, and Josephine, shifting atop her, merely smiles knowingly, and closes her eyes, feeling the drum of the Seeker's pulse beneath her, steady and strong.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate titles for this fic during production:  
> -Dan Josie your Bobbie s  
> -Cassandra Pentaghast Does Not Know What A Kink Is  
> -This Fic Was Supposed To Be About Nipple Piercings, Where Did I Go Wrong
> 
> Anyway: this fic was partially inspired by other fics that I've heard rumored but haven't personally read (so far as I'm aware; my memory is notoriously terrible), in which either A) Josie has nipple piercings or B) Cass discovers that she really enjoys nipple piercings, but I've never heard of one that combines the two; this was a niche, I decided, that someone had to fill. Alongside, naturally, a whole mess of feelings that may or may not be implied as internalized homophobia.
> 
> As ever, this work is dedicated to my dear friend Rory (agenthill here on ao3, and purveyor of fine femslash themself); without her (and a nudge from my other darling friend T) this fic would never have been prompted, and I'd never get anything done. 
> 
> As always, I very much hope you enjoyed, and please, feel free to leave suggestions for anything else you'd like to see in the comments--and from the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading.
> 
> (Title is from "Infinity," by One Direction, which is entirely Rory's fault--a little of mine, too, for needing a title so badly that I went with it.)


End file.
